


How Astrid Got Her Groove Back

by oh_you_pretty_things



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Sexual Content, cougarstrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_you_pretty_things/pseuds/oh_you_pretty_things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. It wasn’t like this bar was exactly age appropriate for a forty-two year old divorcée with a fully grown daughter. And wasn't as if she was interested in motorcycle riders. Not anymore. Well, not until he came through the doors. (Originally posted on tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                Astrid didn’t even know what she was doing here. It wasn’t like this bar was exactly _age appropriate_ for a forty-two year old divorcée with a fully grown daughter. Never mind that it had been said daughter that had convinced her to come out to this godforsaken _dive_. Her daughter and her good-for-nothing best friend. They’d formed this strange little alliance and somehow finagled Astrid into a white bandage dress that was a size too small and several inches too short. It was exactly the sort of thing that Astrid would have worn when she _was_ age appropriate for this place. But that was _twenty_ _years_ ago. You know, _before_ she got pregnant and subsequently married. And now, subsequently divorced.

                Maybe that was the real problem with this place. It reminded her too much of where she’d met Eret all those years ago. It had been a seedy bar, like this one. She’d been wearing a tiny dress, like this one. He’d rolled up on his Harley, all tattoos and smug grins, and Astrid had been smitten. Too smitten. Forgot-to-insist-on-a-condom smitten. And like the pair of too-young idiots that they were, their immediate response was to tie themselves to one another forever. The only good thing that had come out of their marriage had been Aria.

                Astrid grinned when she heard her daughter’s pealing laughter across the bar, even over the maddening din of this so-called music. Aria was all the best parts of both of them – Eret’s easy humour with Astrid’s fierce and loyal heart. Eret’s shining dark hair and Astrid’s fine-boned features and wide cheekbones. Astrid’s big blue eyes and Eret’s height. She was sturdier in form than Astrid, curvaceous where her mother was not so well-endowed. She was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

                “Hi,” a boy (and yes, he was a _boy_ ) with black hair and bright blue eyes said as he leered at Astrid, perched on her stool.

                He wiggled his eyebrows and Astrid blinked at him, astounded. She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow – Aria had insisted on a full makeover “How are you going to get laid if you have Mom eyebrows, Mom?” – and fought back a laugh.

                “Hello,” she replied slowly.

                The kid gave her the once over and Astrid had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing outright. This little monster had more swagger than the rest of the men in the bar combined. Astrid gave _him_ the once over – he was a jock, broad shoulders, big biceps, and a narrow waist, but he was also horribly, horribly short. Maybe that’s why the swagger was in place – short man syndrome.

                “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, so overly sure of himself.

                “Um, I’m okay,” Astrid said, shaking her still full gin and tonic, “Thanks.”

                The short jock wasn’t deterred. He flexed his biceps in what Astrid could only assume was a move he’d practiced many times in front of a mirror.

                “So, uh, you go to Berk?” he asked, grinning at her smugly.

                Astrid stared at the kid and wondered if this was what it had been like all those years ago, when she’d had a thing for jocks. When she went home with jocks frequently. Had they just flexed their biceps at her and given her a smug grin? Had that been enough then? It had been enough for Eret, hadn’t it? Or had it – he’d been smarter. He had quicker words and a wiliness about him that Astrid had appreciated. And those arms. This kid had those arms, too. Big, hulking, bulky muscles. The kind you can really hang onto; the kind that made her feel safe and protected.

                But those arms had failed her over time and she wasn’t that interested in smug grins and bulging muscles anymore. Or motorcycles. Absolutely no motorcycles. Or tattoos. Or earrings. No, none of those _rebellious_ things. She was getting too old for that shit. She _was_ too old for that shit.

                “No,” Astrid said very clearly, setting down her drink and leaning into the smug jock’s face, “My daughter goes to Berk.”

                She was close enough that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and leaking out of his pores. Astrid wondered if he could even see her clearly – see her crow’s feet and the fine lines around her mouth, and know she wasn’t in her twenties anymore. He blinked at her, uncomprehending, and then smiled widely.

                “Ha ha, you’re way too young to have a daughter at Berk. Good joke.”

                Astrid leaned back and rolled her eyes, taking a long sip of her drink. Maybe she should just let the kid buy her a drink. But no. That would just encourage him to hang around and as much as Ruff insisted that fucking twenty-year olds would _change her world_ , Astrid really didn’t _want_ to fuck a twenty-year old. It felt like strange and unnecessary baggage. It made her feel like she was robbing some young thing’s innocence. When she’d told Ruff this, she’d been met with incredulity and a heavy dosing of scoffing. “Do you even remember what it was like to be twenty, Hoff? You were _no_ innocent.” Which had been true enough, but still. It felt wrong. She was old enough to be this kid’s mother. Ugh.

                “I’m forty-two,” she said.

                The kid started laughing as though she’d told a hilarious joke. She looked up at Ruff with wide eyes. Aria gave her the thumbs up from across the room and Astrid shook her head slowly. Ruff was snickering and while the kid was still bellowing away, telling her she was the most hilarious girl (girl – ha!) in the room, Astrid mouthed “help me” at her friend. Ruff rolled her eyes but crossed the room with her easy, loping grace. She paused behind the boy, assessing him and then deciding that he wasn’t going to be her prey that night. Instead she walked around him and looped a long arm around Astrid’s waist.

                “Hey, baby. Didja miss me?” she asked Astrid, winking at her.

                The boy stopped laughing and looked from Astrid to Ruff and back again. God, Astrid thought, they hadn’t done _this_ in years. But Astrid still remembered the drill. She didn’t say a word, just leaned down and kissed Ruff. Kissing a woman was strange after all these years, strange and soft and _not_ Eret. It was hard to believe that they’d played this game all the time to get rid of unwanted suitors. Only twenty years ago there had been more alcohol and less _weirdness_.

                “Whoa,” the boy said, “whoa. Are you guys—“

                “Yep. Certified carpet munchers,” Ruff said cheerfully, “Sorry, kid.”

                The boy stared at Astrid again, renewed wonder in his eyes, and she had to wonder if they hadn’t made it worse with that little display. For a second he did nothing but fixate on Ruff’s hand on Astrid’s waist, her fingers lazily stroking her ribs. Then he turned away and took a few steps before turning back and asking,

                “Can I watch?”

                “No!” both Astrid and Ruff said together, glaring.

                The effect was immediate, the kid jumping at their tone and scurried back to his group of jock friends. Astrid released a sigh of relief and slumped into the back of her chair.

                “Thanks,” she muttered at Ruff.

                Ruff rolled her eyes, yet again. “You know the whole point of this whole night is for you to get laid, right?”

                Astrid glowered at her, pulling her straw from her drink and tossing the rest of the cocktail down her throat. “Yes. I’m aware. You’ve turned my own daughter against me.”

                Aria had her signature what-the-fuck-Mom look targeted straight at her. Ruff looked over at Aria and shrugged.

                “Maybe I’m just not ready for this.”

                “It’s been a year.”

                “After a good eighteen.”

                “I wouldn’t say they were all good.”

                “They weren’t all bad,” Astrid muttered, stabbing ice cubes with her straw, “I need another drink.”

                Ruff shoved her in the shoulder, knocking the stool off-kilter. “Then you should have let that little jock buy you one.”

                Astrid groaned. “I can’t _do_ jocks, Ruffnut.”

                “Uh, yeah you can.”

                “No, they’re too much like—“

                “Blech. Don’t even continue that. Listen, I will go get you a drink to keep that little shit away, but this is the last one. If you want more drinks, you’re going to have to pick a dick and hop on it.”

                “So eloquent,” Astrid spat at her friend’s back. Ruff gave her the finger as she walked to the bar.

                Pick a dick and hop on it. Seriously. Ruffisms for the ages. It was easy for Ruff, though. She hadn’t aged badly, she still had her figure and her face was still smooth and pretty. She’d never married, so picking up men was easy for her. Astrid was out of practice. Seriously out of practice. She didn’t know how to pick someone up and she was too afraid to be picked up _by_ someone. And what would she do if she was? She’d just end up going home and back to her life of matching cardigan sets and tasteful business casual attire. Mom clothes, as Aria called it.

                Astrid remembered the first time she bought “Mom clothes”. It was teacher-parent conferences; Aria was ten and Astrid was thirty-two. She’d gone in a pair of faded blue jeans and a graphic t-shirt, her hair in a ponytail. At first she’d been proud of her youth, even despite the other moms glaring at her judgementally. It had all been fine until she’d seen an eighth grader wearing the same shirt as her. She’d decided she needed to grow up her wardrobe right then and there. Now that was all she was left with – Mom clothes and an empty house.

                Ruff dropped her drink on the table and glared at her. “You look sad.”

                “I’m going to die alone.”

                Ruff scoffed. “Oh, fuck off, Astrid. Look in a fucking mirror. No one is going to let _that_ die alone,” she said, gesturing with her hand.

                “You just gestured to all of me.”

                “Exactly.”

                “Listen, you can continue to be a sad sack over here, but I am going over there,” Ruff said, pointing to a tall, dark-haired guy who was probably half her age, “And I am going to collect myself a virile young man and I am going to have my way with him. I _highly_ recommend that you do the same. You need to remember what it’s like to be fucked, Hoff.”

                Astrid sneered at her friend and frowned into her drink. She looked up to see her perfect offspring flirting expertly with some gloriously attractive boy who was _smitten_. Astrid fought the urge to run across the room and remind Aria to insist upon a condom. They’d had that talk about a hundred times since Aria got her period, essentially. Aria had a veritable collection of condoms in her purse at all times. Aria was going to get laid. And she’s twenty – she _should_ get laid. Astrid, on the other hand, should maybe go home and have a cup of tea, catch up on the books she’d borrowed from the library.

                Somewhere outside, she heard the familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine followed by the distinct absence of sound produced by cutting the engine. She sipped her drink, not bothering to check herself as she did, just sucking it back, and tried to see out the dirty windows of the bar. She could make out a tall figure in black, striding purposefully toward the door. Astrid swiveled on her seat, pointedly waiting to see the mystery motorcycle rider. Not that she was interested in motorcycle riders, of course. She was just curious. Nothing wrong with a little curiosity.

                He came into the bar, tall and lithe and so wildly unlike her _type_ – not that her type had been exactly foolproof, clearly. He was wearing leathers, worn, black leathers that hugged his thin frame making the curves of his leg muscles so markedly apparent. Astrid sucked on her straw a little harder as her eyes fell onto his ass. She had to put the drink down because _that ass_. Damn. It was so… _tight_. So _compact_. She wanted to reach out and feel to see if it was as firm as it looked.

                It never even dawned on her that it was strange that he still had his helmet on. She hadn’t even noticed that he had his helmet on because she was too busy watching the fluidity of his leathers over the undoubtedly taut muscles of _that ass_. He made a direct line to the bar, the tiny blonde bartender grinning at his arrival. Astrid’s speeding heart did a lurch of unbridled disappointment. She was probably his girlfriend, what with the way she’s knocking on his helmet. The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man shrugged and pulled off his helmet. And it was better than she’d been imagining. Choppy, messy auburn hair that fell around his ears and teased the nape of his long, pale neck. He turned his head a little and she caught the sharp edge of his stubbled jaw and the black spacer in his earlobe, the glint of hoops through his auricle. He was laughing with the bartender and Astrid found herself smiling along with him. He had an easy, toothy smile, of which she could only see a hint. She wanted to see more.

                The bartender headed down to the other end of the bar to serve someone else and the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man glanced around the room. He turned around then, leaning back against the bar, his arms spread out like he owned the place. The position allowed her a better view of his narrow waist, and more importantly, a full, unhindered view of his face. That sharp jaw, thin-lipped mouth and those wide eyes. He wasn’t looking at her so she didn’t feel any shame in _staring_ at him.

                His eyes swept the room and Astrid couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this worked up about catching someone’s attention. Christ, he was probably half her age. Realization came with a sudden, violent jolt: _she didn’t care_. Because here was the first interesting person to walk into this horrible bar and she didn’t care if he was twenty. She didn’t really have to talk to him. They didn’t need to _talk_. If they didn’t talk, she could imagine that he was ultra-intelligent and had his shit together and was maybe just like her – remarkably well-preserved for his age.

                That’s when it happened – his eyes met hers for a split second and then slid right past her. With the quick twitch of his head, they were back on her and locked. His lips were slightly parted, eyes wide, and he was staring at her. Astrid let her lips turn up, giving him the signature Hofferson Half-smile. The grin that grew across his face was slow and unsure at first, but it grew increasingly confident as it stretched wider. Behind him, the bartender returned with his drink. Her eyes flitted to Astrid and then she smirked and shook her head, shoving the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man forward. He spared her a quick glare and grabbed his drink, turning with hopeful eyes toward Astrid.

                Smiling, Astrid put her straw between her lips and sucked – he didn’t have to know that there wasn’t anything left in her glass. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly and Astrid’s grin grew into an outright smile. There was something so disarming about him, even as he deliberately weaved through drunken coeds to get to her table by the window.

                He stood before her and now that he was up close she could see that his eyes were green and that he had a spattering of freckles across his nose. He was _cute_ , but Astrid didn’t want to think about that because that would mean thinking about how she was old enough to be his mother. And fuck that. He didn’t know that. And she wasn’t about to tell him.

                The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man narrowed his eyes at her in appraisal, watching as she very purposefully put her empty glass down on the table. His eyes fell on the glass for a split second before darting back to her eyes.

                “I don’t—“ he started, glancing down at his drink with a furrowed brow. He seemed to recollect himself – his shoulders went back and his eyes locked on hers, his serious expression sending a shiver through Astrid.

                “I took the liberty of buying you a drink,” he said, his voice a deep, nasal intonation that was so incredibly unlike anything she’d heard before.

                “That was forward of you. What if I turned it down?” Astrid asked, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward in her seat. His eyes flicked down to her legs and she smirked. Alright, she still had it after all.

                “Are you turning it down?”

                Astrid raised her eyebrows but didn’t answer. Again, his eyes narrowed and he seemed to decide something right then. Holding the straw out of the way, he downed the drink and set the empty glass down on the table. A small grin played on his lips.

                “So, can I buy you a drink?”


	2. Chapter 2

When Aria and Ruff had dragged her out tonight, this was precisely the sort of situation that Astrid had been trying to avoid. The situation where she was outside the door of a stranger’s apartment, kissing said stranger. _Violently_. And he smelled like leather and soap and liquor; he tasted like gin and promises and she wanted to know what those promises held. Her hands snaked around his hips, sliding on warm, butter-soft leather and cupping that indescribably firm ass, kneading the tight muscles there and swallowing his groan into her mouth. He pushed her back into the door frame, his fingers tight on her waist, his kisses frantic but gentle.

It had started in the cab. Or maybe it had started by his bike. Or, fuck, maybe it had started in the bar, in that instant that he walked up to her table and swallowed that drink. He was everything Astrid _shouldn’t_ want. He was young – oh god, so young. She didn’t even know how young he really was and she didn’t want to think about it because if she thought about it, she’d have to think about his parents and if she thought about his parents she had to think about Aria and if she thought about Aria, she’d be worried about Aria. And then she would convince herself that it should be _Aria_ making out with the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man, not _her_. Even though Aria had enthusiastically nodded at her with wide eyes and two thumbs way up. Ruff had leered at _that ass_ and Astrid couldn’t really blame her. Because it was _magnificent_ in her hands.

The first thing she’d said to the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man when he’d returned with the drink she’d agreed to let him buy her was:

“I’m not going home with you.”

He’d grinned at her, this lopsided, adorable thing that matched his freckles and showcased his slightly crooked teeth. “I never asked you to.”

“I’m just establishing a fact.”

“Consider it established,” he’d said easily, sitting on the stool across from her.

He’d taken a sip of the drink he’d brought over for himself and grimaced before twisting and engaging in some sort of non-verbal exchange with the tiny blonde bartender. Astrid caught her wink and thumbs up and it had made her laugh, truly. A bright, bubbling burst of laughter that made her sound so much younger than she was, and it had called his attention back to her.

“Friend of yours?” she asked.

The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man rolled his big, pretty green eyes and smiled. “Yeah. The best,” he took another sip and scowled, “Also, the worst.”

Astrid had leaned across the table – and she didn’t even know why she did it – and gave him that fucking sultry look that she’d thought she’d long forgotten. “It looks like she wants me to take advantage of you.”

His eyebrows had risen, his lips parting just slightly, eyes slipping down to her cleavage for an instant and then back up to her face. “Wouldn’t it,” he started slowly, “be in her best interest for me to take advantage of you?”

Astrid snorted. “Hos before bros,” she said, waving daintily at the bartender who gave her a wide smile and enthusiastically returned the wave.

The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man blinked at her. “What _is_ your name?” he asked in wonder.

And Astrid looked at him then – really looked at him – and wondered if she could even do this. Because he was young. He was probably the same age as her daughter. And she knew that the bar lights were being inordinately kind to her, hiding the lines and ridges that time had etched into her face. Could she pull the wool over the eyes of this young, beautiful creature? And what would happen if she knew his name? It made him real then – not just an idea anymore. Not just a fun fuck, which according to Ruff was exactly what she needed. Astrid took a long sip of her drink before speaking.

 “No names,” she said.

 “What?”

 “No names tonight, Mystery Man.”

His eyebrows shot up again, surprised but intrigued. “No names,” he repeated.

“That’s right.”

 He shrugged, conceding the battle he’d barely fought. “Okay.”

It wasn’t until three drinks later that she was touching his arm as she laughed at his jokes, feeling the alcohol far more than she would have in her younger years. She had to stop drinking because this was going to get sloppy if she continued and she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t go home with him. She was twice his age, at least. It would be like robbing the cradle. The beautiful, legal cradle with a leather jacket and a motorcycle.

“Can you show me your bike?” she asked him, again surprising him.

“You want to see my motorcycle?” he asked slowly, “How did you even know I had a motorcycle?”

“You came in wearing your helmet. Plus, I saw you pull up.”

“So you were planning on seducing me from the beginning?” he asked with a quirk of his lips, amused.

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head, “I only wanted to watch.”

“Watch?” he asked, a laugh tinting his voice and making her smile.

“Not like that,” she laughed.

“Then like what, Mystery Woman?”

“I just…”

But her words had died there because she didn’t want to tell him that she’d only wanted to _look_ at him in all his youthful glory because she was so much _older_ than him. It was the first time she’d cursed her advanced age. It barred her from him. Because even if he was all laughs now, in the light of day he’d be shocked by her. She was sure of it. He’d leave.

She’d looked up then, her eyes searching for Aria or Ruff. She found them sitting at a table, watching her talk to the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man and frowned at them. Aria just nodded her head frenetically while Ruff gave her a broad, toothy smile, eyes wild. The Mystery Man followed her gaze and chuckled when he turned back to her.

“Friends of yours?”

Astrid snorted and stabbed an ice cube with her straw. “The best. Also, the worst.

“Which is which?” he laughed, looking at them again.

Both of them were pretending, badly, to watch the dancers on the dance floor now. Astrid sighed. “Depends on the day, really.”

The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s eyes lingered on Aria, the slightest of frowns coming over his face. With a sharp, unpleasant shock, Astrid realized that she was _jealous_ of her daughter for the first time in her life. Because she knew it was her who should be chatting up this gorgeous creature with his earrings and that hint a of a black, curling tattoo that ended just above the collar of his shirt, just below the choppy ends of his auburn hair that was ever so slightly too long.

“Is that—Are you two related?” he asked.

Astrid’s eyes fell on her _perfect_ offspring and she sighed, wishing she hadn’t squandered her own youth but knowing that would mean no longer having an Aria to stare at wistfully.

“Mmhmm,” she said, sucking back the rest of her drink.

His eyes were back on her, watching her thoughtfully. “Sister?”

Astrid smiled, straw still between her teeth. “Something like that.”

He looked at Aria again, considering, and Astrid waited for this to fall apart. For him to suggest an incestuous threesome, or ask to be set up with Aria, or something that would indicate that he was in fact twenty and not the sharp, witty, _older_ person he came across as when they talked. She locked her eyes on the sharp angle of his jaw, wanting to drag her fingers through the stubble there and feel it catch beneath her nails. The Mystery Man turned back to her and gave her a charming smile, green eyes alight with mischief.

 _God, here it comes_ , she thought. And maybe it was for the best because the more time she spent with him, the more time she wanted to forget about her caveat of _not_ going home with him. It would be better to go home alone and drink a tea and stave off the hangover she was bound to have in the morning; to slip into her the silk slip she’d bought from that fancy lingerie store the day she’d signed the divorce papers - because she’d deserved something, hadn’t she – and touch herself, remembering his green eyes and that tattoo she never got to see and _that ass_. Because he was going to ruin it right now. She knew it.

“She’s got nothing on you,” he said.

And that had sealed it. Astrid had slid off the stool as soon as the shock had worn off.

“Show me your bike.”

It was a matte black sports bike and the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man stood back as Astrid walked alongside the curb, running her fingers along the body of the bike from tailpipe to handlebars. She looked back at him and grinned. He was watching her with an expression that told her he expected nothing. He was probably used to girls telling him his bike was hot. It was an empty come on that Astrid had seen executed so many times on her own husband. Ex-husband. Eret had always given those girls the same slightly disappointed look that her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man was giving her now.

Astrid turned and leaned her ass against the seat, resting one hand on the handlebars and one on the body beside her.

“Ducati. I should have known. What is this, a Streetfighter?”

She almost laughed at the way his eyes had widened at her words and the wondrous way he nodded in answer to her question. She’d surprised him again. Astrid glanced down and noticed the first modification, standing upright and stepping back from the bike. There were a number of modifications to the bike, likely for speed, she was guessing.

“You’ve modded the hell out of this bike,” she murmured more to herself than to him.

He was beside her then, staring at her profile as she stared at his bike. Astrid squatted and reached out to touch the shiny chrome engine mod curiously; she glanced up at him. “What does this do?”

“Allows me to go really fast,” he mumbled, his expression unreadable.

Astrid stood up and rolled her eyes. “How?”

“Like, torque versus power and max RPMs how?”

Astrid grinned. “Exactly.”

For a minute, that beautiful boy just stood there and stared at her. Astrid was starting to become concerned for his well-being when he spoke again.

“I know you said you weren’t coming home with me, but do you want to come home with me?”

Astrid smiled and took a step closer, the fingers of her right hand sliding up the front of his jacket and catching the pull of his zipper. He licked his lips and she immediately wanted to know what those lips would feel like against hers. She tugged on his zipper and pulled his face closer to hers.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll answer it if you come home with me,” he replied rapidly, “I’ll answer anything you want if you come home with me. Please come home with me.”

She should have said no. She should have gone home to her tea and library books. She should have stayed away from this beautiful young thing. But she couldn’t. Because he’d modded the shit out of his bike and she wanted to know more. Because he had earrings and tattoos and a motorcycle. Because he was smart and funny and quick. Because he _wasn’t_ her type (and yet somehow he was _exactly_ her type). Because he was gorgeous. And that ass. And goddamn it, she really needed to get laid.

“If I come home with you,” she said slowly, her voice deliberately quiet, “I expect a full lesson on torque and power.”

His eyes fell to her lips as he spoke. “I will teach you everything I know.”

Astrid stepped back, grinning, her hands falling to her sides. “That’s all I want.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Smut ahead.

He dropped his keys trying to kiss her and open the door to his apartment at the same time. Astrid liked the way he completely ignored the keys in favour of wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her closer to him. She liked being kissed like this – like he couldn’t help himself, like she was special, like she was _young_. It was a wonderful fantasy, the idea that she was twenty-two again and that this beautiful Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man was an _opportunity_. That they might date and grow close and build a life together – two point five kids and a white picket fence. There was so much _potential_ in the way that he touched her; in the magnetism she’d felt from his fingers brushing hers when they were in the cab.

She wanted him. Astrid wanted him so badly.

It had been awhile. _Clearly_ it had been awhile. And he was new and beautiful and young. She liked the tang of whiskey on his tongue, the scent of wind in his hair. He was something _other_ than the boring, suited men she’d been set up with lately. Men who had responsibilities; men with careers and ex-wives. Astrid knew she had no business wanting this young, _marvelous_ creature, but she just _didn’t care_.

She broke the kiss with a husky laugh when his fingers brushed the delicate underside of her breast.

“Maybe we should go inside,” she whispered.

The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s eyes were nearly black when he looked at her, the thin ring of brilliant green catching the dull light in the hallway of his apartment building. He grinned lopsidedly and Astrid brought her hand up to that sharp jaw, dragging her fingernails through his stubble. His eyes slid shut and he growled somewhere deep in his throat, the sound so unexpectedly arousing that Astrid bit her bottom lip hard enough to break skin. His eyes snapped open and he narrowed them at her before bending over to get the keys. Astrid couldn’t resist reaching out and _grabbing_ that _ass_.

He jumped at the contact and shot her an amused smile, rapidly unlocking the door and catching her around the waist with his arm. In one smooth movement, he yanked her inside the dark apartment and shut the door, pressing her back up against it, pressing his body into hers. Astrid had let out a squeal at the speed of his movements and laughed, again that light and bubbling thing. She couldn’t remember laughing like that, not for a long time.

His lips were on hers again, gently moving and coaxing them apart so his tongue could sneak past and dance with hers. His fingers were scalding through the thin material of her dress, muted and torturous, an undeniable _tease_ of what could be.

She should tell him. She should tell him how old she was. He had a right to know that he was making out with a woman twice his age. But didn’t she have the right to make out with a man half her age, too? She’d tell him. Eventually. But she should at least get to feel that lean body under all that leather first. Astrid’s hands slid up his chest, her fingers catching his zipper and tugging it down. The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man (she should really have thought that whole no names thing through a little further) shook off his jacket once she’d pushed it from his shoulders. He was only wearing a t-shirt beneath it, soft and pilling and well-worn. Astrid’s fingers toyed with the fabric, her palms pressing against the lean muscles of his chest, the hard peaks of his nipples. Another throaty groan and she was pressing into him, her leg hitching up the outside of his thigh. A hot, sturdy hand hooked behind her knee and pulled her even closer, still kissing, wildly kissing.

Astrid’s hands moved all over his wonderfully taut abdomen and chest, sliding up and over his shoulders, gripping his biceps. She was used to massive arms. Arms that could physically move her. It wasn’t that the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s arms _couldn’t_ move her, she could feel the strength in them, but the muscles there were just so _different_. So lean, so ropey, so _foreign_. She liked it, the feel of this leanness under her hands, the strength in the hands that held her with long, careful fingers. He wasn’t a jock who didn’t know his own strength, he was an artist with a gentle, guarded power. There was something incredibly in synch with the way they moved together. Their kisses met with equal force, their hands supporting and reaching, equal parts passion and care. There was no struggle for dominance, no fight for control. They shared it as one.

Astrid’s breath hitched when his hand traveled up the side of her thigh, pausing to squeeze her ass before sliding around the front and up her skirt. The truth was she was wet already, so horribly aroused just from _kissing_ him, that when his fingers barely brushed her through the yielding fabric of her underwear, she cried out, embarrassingly. Her eyes flew open and she expected to find him laughing at her, expected him to say something mocking. It’s what Eret did, never missing an opportunity to have the upper hand on her. But the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man _didn’t_ say anything. He just kissed her neck with newfound fervour, his thumb stroking her with a repetitive frequency that sent her hips bucking into his hand, her breath coming in noisy gasps.

And she was close, _so_ close, his hot kisses against her neck and collarbone and jaw punctuating each relentless stroke of his thumb. His fingers skirted the edge of her underwear, teasing at the elastic. He pulled his thumb away from her, his fingers still barely under the elastic. Astrid groaned in protest, her eyes flying open to find him staring at her. She flinched against his hand when he ran his finger just under the elastic, eyes wide and black in the darkness.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Oh god, _yes_ ,” she said before she had a chance to register that he’d asked _permission_. She couldn’t remember a time when that had _ever_ happened before.

The thought crossed her mind – fleeting and flimsy – that she should really _tell_ him because he was a _decent_ man and he deserved the _truth_. But then his fingers were inside her underwear, slipping into the crease of her, a long finger slipping inside and her whole world was nothing but sheer physical sensation. Slick in and out movements, an artfully teasing thumb, her leg hooked viciously around his. Astrid threw her head back, slamming it into the door and releasing a muffled moan as she clamped around him, the orgasm that shouldn’t have been a surprise but was. Probably because she’d forgotten what it was like.

When she back to earth, the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man was watching her carefully, his fingers sliding from her, slipping out of her underwear, her foot shakily returning to the ground.

“Are you okay?”

For a panicked moment, she wondered if he was some sort of inexperienced _virgin_ and then realized that was the many drinks she’d had providing that logic. Virgins didn’t do _that_ with their hands. (Did they?) Her horror must have shown because he started laughing, a low, easy chuckle.

“Your head,” he said, smiling, “It sounded like it hurt.”

Astrid laughed and looked away, liking the closeness of his body to hers, the way he hadn’t pulled away from her, the ease of his hand on her waist, light and undemanding. The way he hadn’t asked her for anything other than her permission.

“Sorry,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on the hem of his t-shirt.

When the only answer she received was silence she glanced up at him to find him watching her with raised eyebrows.

“You’re sorry for hitting your head?”

Well, no. And yes. She was sorry for a lot of things. But what things? Because she _wasn’t_ sorry that she’d hit her head in the midst of an incredible orgasm. She _wasn’t_ sorry that she’d had an incredible orgasm. And she was surprised to find that she _wasn’t_ sorry that she hadn’t told him her age. She was especially unapologetic about the fact that she still had no intention to tell him her age. God, she was awful. Too bad she didn’t care.

Astrid looked up at him, eyes hooded and smile demure. “I’m sorry you didn’t come, too,” she whispered.

The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s eyes widened, surprised again by her.

“I might have just now,” he said, grin wry.

She punched him in the shoulder lightly and pulled her arm back rapidly, embarrassed by the reaction. God, she hadn’t done _that_ since high school. Maybe she was actually regressing mentally.

“Sorry,” she said again.

“No, you’re not.”

He was smiling at her, unaffected, and she found herself grinning back.

“No, I’m not.” Astrid took a step forward and cupped his leather-clad balls with a loose palm. “Bedroom?”

The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s mouth had fallen open, his breath shaky. He closed his mouth and swallowed noisily, nodding. “Definitely.”

They had a moment – a weird, untarnished moment where neither of them moved or breathed. They simply looked at each other in the darkness with all the pent up want and need that was ruminating between them. She still wanted him, wanted to feel him inside her and taste him on her lips. Then they were crashing into each other, colliding and melding together, lips meeting with fevered passion. His hands were hiking up her skirt while hers were tearing at his shirt. They broke apart long enough for her to pull his shirt over his head, and then they were locked in a sloppy, desperate embrace; wet kisses and too much force.

His hands were on her hips, gently guiding her backwards through the halls of his apartment, occasionally stopping to press up against a wall, Astrid’s fingernails digging into his soft skin and dragging until he moaned into her mouth and kissed her _just_ hard enough. They were somewhere down some hall when he finally wrenched the zipper of her dress down, breaking away from her and pressing his hands against the wall on either side of her head.

“Okay?” he breathed.

Astrid released an amused huff. “Yes, it’s okay,” she laughed, curling her hand around his neck and pulling his face close to hers, “I want you to fuck me.”

And they were kissing again, his hands all over her, shoving the dress from her shoulders, running over her breasts and stomach and ass.

“God, I want you,” he whispered into her collarbone.

“Then take me,” she whispered back.

For a desperate, reaching moment, Astrid thought he would, right there in the hall, the way his eyes were devouring her, running down her body with reverence. Then they were back on their maddening journey to his bedroom, which was apparently at the end of the obscenely long hallway. He walked her backward until the back of her knees hit something soft – presumably the bed – then his kisses grew gentler, but no less frantic. With ghosting fingertips, he skimmed her skin so delicately that he sent goosebumps all along her ribs and chest and arms. She shivered in delight when his warm hands reached around to release the catch of her bra.

Their lips parted with a soft pop as he pulled back, pulling her bra straps down her arms, his eyes taking her body in. There was something in that look – an eye for detail – that made her shiver under the scrutiny. She was afraid he’d find her out, afraid he’d know now that she wasn’t what she seemed – not as tight as she once was, not as _bouncy_. His eyes came back up to hers, wide and green and unreadable. Astrid found herself holding her breath as she waited for the verdict.

“Fuck,” he breathed, “You’re _perfect_.”

Astrid grinned as she released a shaking, relieved breath that twisted into a laugh. She caught his wrist and tugged him into her, her fingers spreading wide over the red dragon tattooed over his heart. She let her eyes wander over the lean muscles of his chest, over gently formed abs.

“You’re not bad yourself.”

This time when he leaned down to kiss her, he took his time, slowly moving against her, his chest brushing softly against her breasts, sparse hair rasping tauntingly over her nipples. It was inevitable, the way the kiss deepened, the way her hands slid to the fastenings of his pants and undid them, tugging them down with his boxers and gripping the smooth curve of his ass. With careful consideration, he laid her down on the bed, Astrid crawling backward with her elbows to make room for him. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down gently, again taking his worshipful gaze along the length of her, committing her to memory. God, she forgot what it was like to be looked at like that. Maybe she’d never even known.

Her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man nudged her thighs apart with his knee, bending over her and kissing her so delicately. Like she was breakable. Like she was treasured. She didn’t even know his name. She didn’t even know sex could _be_ like this. Or maybe she did, but it had been years and years since it had been. His mouth made love to her, lips on the skin behind her ear, at her throat, on her breasts, his tongue rolling her nipple, her back arching into him. It was enough to make her almost forget the cardinal rule as she spread her thighs wider for him, willing him to enter. Astrid’s eyes flew open, just in time to insist upon a condom. He hovered over her, eyes directed somewhere past her head, arm outstretched toward the nightstand she could barely see. He gave up with a frustrated grunt, crawling off of her and stretching for the table again. He tore the foil packet open and rolled the condom into place without a second thought. He may not have known it, but that sense of _responsibility_ turned her on more than she’d ever admit.

He turned back to her, hair messed and eyes shining, and Astrid sat up suddenly. She saw his mouth open to speak and flung herself into him before he had a chance to get a word out. She pushed him down, straddling his hips and reaching down between them, ready to sink down onto him. Astrid remembered the way he’d asked permission and wondered if there had been a reason for it. Big green eyes watched her with rapt fascination.

“Okay?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Oh yeah.”

She slid down onto him, eyes never leaving his face. She liked the way his eyes had closed and his lips had parted. She liked the way his head had sunk back into the pillow, the way his hair fell against his forehead. She didn’t know his name or how old he was or what he did for a living (if he even had a living yet) and already she liked him far more than she should. She liked the way they rocked together, the way his hands had supported her hips as she moved and the way he watched her. She liked how his hands gripped her ass, slid up her ribs, and palmed her breasts. She liked how their fingers had intertwined as their motions grew faster, as they reached the apex together, bounding past it and over it. She liked how he held her against his chest, her ear pressed up against his rapid heartbeat and quickened breaths.

Astrid liked the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man a little too much, if she really thought about it. Thankfully she was too tired to think of _anything._


	4. Chapter 4

Astrid had been awake for exactly eighteen minutes according to the strange, futuristic alarm clock on the nightstand beside her head. It had taken her a moment to remember where she was and what she was doing there. And why she was naked. Then she’d rolled over and her heart had stopped in her chest (which, honestly, at her age could be dangerous). Astrid willed herself to breathe, but it was so very difficult. Her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man was, in fact, an arresting sight with all that unruly auburn hair and the smattering of freckles across his nose.

 Her heart beat painfully and loudly as she remembered the night before. The ill-advised night before. Jesus, this guy was half her age. Maybe. Maybe not. She didn’t even know. Last night she hadn’t cared. She cared now.

 When she’d sat up, she’d done so gingerly, using her hands to carefully spread out her shifting weight as she moved. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him up. If anything, she could salvage the situation by dressing quickly and escaping out his front door before he even broke a REM sleep cycle. She shifted in the bed, clutching the sheets and blanket to her chest and inching her body toward the edge of the mattress, her eyes never leaving the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s sleeping form. She could do this, she realized. She could slither out of bed, get dressed and leave. She could do the walk of shame. Hell, she was a financially secure, grown woman. She could do a cab ride of shame.

 Astrid’s eyes skimmed the floor for her clothes and felt herself flush when she saw her dress crumpled just outside the doorway. Right. Last night. It had happened. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes locking on the long black tattoo on his exposed, pale back. It looked like a dragon from what she could tell. A dragon seemed to be fitting somehow. She scoffed at herself for presuming to know him. All she knew about him was that he was beautiful and too young and really, _really_ good in bed. Really good. Unfairly good. It was like he’d taken all the skills from the rest of the male contingent of the species and left them all with nothing, like some sort of sexual prowess incubus. All the more reason to get out of there before he stole her soul. Or even worse, her heart.

 If she remembered the events of last night correctly, she’d find pieces of it all over his apartment. The thought suddenly occurred to her that her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man might not live alone. Astrid balked at the idea of running – naked - into another twenty-year old in broad daylight, when the cover of night wasn’t in place to hide her fine lines. Glancing around, Astrid spotted an oversized hoodie slung across the back of a desk chair. Tiptoeing across the room, the cool air teasing goose bumps onto her skin as she went, she grabbed it and pulled it over her head. She glanced down to see the words ‘Berk University’ printed proudly across the front of the shirt and rolled her eyes. Another reminder that she didn’t belong here.

 With the intent to set out into the hall in search of her clothes, Astrid turned -- and froze. Her eyes had caught something interesting. A picture of her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man, but not as she knew him. Her fingers caught on the frame and she pulled the picture closer for further inspection. He was younger in it – devoid of his earrings, his hair a little floppier, his smile a little brighter. Less _knowing_. He was wearing a graduation robe and clutching a degree to his chest, grinning at the camera as an enormous man with wild, graying red hair and an impressive beard stood next to him, big arm around his shoulders. His father, maybe?

 Astrid put the picture back down on the desk and frowned at it. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that it could have been taken last year, she couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t. Somehow she knew that it was an older photo than that. Somehow she knew that there was more to her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man. Her eyes wandered back to him again, the curve of his pale arm slung over his head, hills, valleys, _hard planes_ of his body hidden beneath the comforter. Maybe she’d been wrong about him. Maybe last night wasn’t the huge mistake that she thought it was. Or maybe if she was thinking like that, it really, _really_ was a _terrible_ idea.

 Curiously, Astrid peered at the desk and the various and sundry items that littered its surface. It was a peculiar collection of books – textbooks, science fiction, travel, and biographies - sketchbooks, notebooks, pens, pencils, coins of varying origins, and a rather beat up looking laptop. That laptop had seen some things. Astrid’s experiences with the desks of young men previously had been limited to empty pizza boxes and beer cans, neglected course notes, and condoms. Maybe Aria was dealing with an entirely new breed of man. Astrid’s eyes drew up to the photo again and his cheerfully gap-toothed smile. Shad a sneaking suspicion that her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man was not exactly the norm.

 But she’d known that last night. First by his conversation, then by his bike, and later between his sheets (and up against his door and pressed against the wall in the hallway). Monumentally selfless. That was the only way she could describe him. He’d been so concerned with getting _her_ off, with paying attention to every detail – every gasp, every movement, every _thing_ , with working with her to reach mutual satisfaction. Astrid couldn’t remember the last time sex had been like that for her. Hell, maybe it had never been like that. She and Eret had constantly struggled for dominance, working together had never even occurred to them. It was simply a victory and a defeat each time. Maybe last night had been the first time sex had ever been… _cooperative_ for her.

 The bedroom door creaked open, jolting Astrid from her reverie. Her head swivelled toward the sound and she released a relieved sigh when a small, black cat entered the room. She dropped to her haunches and stretched her hand out to the cat who sniffed at her fingers discerningly before head-butting her knuckles.

 “Hi, kitty,” she whispered.

 The cat purred in response as she stroked its sleek, black fur. It was missing the majority of its tail, but seemed not to notice at all. Astrid wondered if it had been born that way or if it had lost it somehow. It turned its luminous green eyes toward her as though it was projecting what it was about to do, unapologetically. The cat circled around her and fixated on the bed. It let out a keening, very loud meow, piercing the silence of the morning. Astrid’s worried glance jumped up to her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man, still sleeping away.

“Stay here, kitty,” Astrid hissed at the cat, reaching for it.

The cat jumped onto the bed and padded across the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s back, stepping onto his pillow and releasing that keening meow once again before rubbing its chin on the back of his head and purring loud enough that Astrid could hear it from her position on the floor, crouched and ready to bolt out the door. The cat looked at her, seemingly smug when its master groaned.

 “Toothless,” he mumbled into his pillow.

 Astrid stood up, eyes wide and locked on the Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man. He was waking up and she was still there. He was waking up and he would _see_ her. He was waking up and the magic of last night could be lost entirely. What if he threw her out? What if he wasn’t wonderful this morning? What if last night was a lie? A beautiful lie.

 She was certain her age would show in the sunlight – fine lines, stretch marks, scars – the evidence of a life that had been lived fully. Astrid considered running out the door, before he had a chance to be disappointed; before he had a chance to disappoint her. Still, she was frozen in place as he shifted in his bed trying to reach for the nimble cat with sleepy hands and missing it entirely.

 “Useless cat,” he muttered, twisting into a sitting position.

 His eyes fell on Astrid, a murky green in the unsure light. She was standing there in his sweatshirt and nothing else, just like she’d done when she was twenty. God, what she wouldn’t do to be twenty again. His eyes skimmed her from head to toe, lingering on her bare thighs before jumping back up to her face. A slow, easy grin appeared on his lips. Astrid liked it a little too much.

 “Good morning,” he said, his voice scratchy with sleep.

 Astrid couldn’t help but smile back. “Hi,” she breathed, her voice sounding uncharacteristically girlish.

 He blinked for a second, considering something. “Coffee?”

 “Oh god, yes.”

 He was an enigma, a surprise element in what was supposed to be an uneventful night. Astrid watched him as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. She couldn’t bear to tear her eyes away from him now. Every movement fascinated her – the way he ran his hand through his tousled hair, the way he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, the way those green eyes locked onto her and the little smirk that had crept onto his face.

 “Are you going to watch me get dressed?” he asked, smug grin sliding for solidly into place as though he expected her to be embarrassed.

 Astrid’s gaze was steady, her eyes narrowing as a slow, predatory grin spread across her face. She looked him up and down deliberately before responding.

 “Yes.”

 His smirk didn’t falter; he didn’t falter at all. He didn’t take his eyes off her when he threw the covers off his lap, in fact, his smile only grew wider. Astrid’s smile grew along with his and only faltered when she saw him reach for something beside the bed, something silvery and long, something he attached to his foot.

 No. Not to his foot. He attached it to his leg, just below his knee. Above where his foot _should_ be.

 Astrid blinked, digesting this new information and wondering how it was that she had missed it last night. Something to do with one too many gin and tonics, she imagined. Something to do with his clever hands and eager kisses, too. The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man tugged on a pair of pajama pants with too much zeal and then glanced up at her fleetingly, his playful smile gone. He studied her with hard eyes, his hands fisting at his knees.

 “You can just say whatever it is you’re thinking,” he said. His tone had changed, his voice suddenly flat and chillingly frigid.

 Astrid frowned at him. “What exactly am I supposed to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Most people go with pitying looks and ‘I’m sorry about your leg’, but there’s always the occasional gasp of disgust. It’s wide open, really.”

 Astrid took in a long breath, her eyes locked on the curve of his shoulders, the crease between his eyes. She didn’t like it, the way he was turning into himself. And for what? His _leg_? As if _that_ mattered.

 “I’m not most people,” she said, her voice softer than even she expected. He blinked at her, clearly not expecting her words, and Astrid crossed over her arms over his ridiculous sweatshirt. “I was actually thinking about how last night was so good, I didn’t even notice,” she said with a defiant shrug.

 “Oh,” he managed to push out, colour rising to his cheeks. It was _adorable_. Too adorable.

 “I should go,” she whispered. But she didn’t _feel_ the words. The last thing she wanted to do in the world was leave.

 He stood up, so much closer and so much _taller_ than she’d thought. She stood her ground and looked up at him, keeping her arms wrapped around herself.

 “What about coffee?”

 Astrid shrugged. “I’ll buy some.”

 He gave her a look of disdain that was so remarkably attractive on his freckled face. “You can’t buy a Haddock cappuccino.”

 “Haddock, huh?” Astrid said, a grin creeping onto her face, “Tell me that’s a fish cappuccino and not your name.”

 “What’s wrong with my name?”

 “I’m not supposed to know it.”

 “That was last night.”

 “I should go. We’re breaking rules all over the place,” Astrid said, letting her arms fall to her sides.

 The Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man’s eyes widened and Astrid bit back a laugh as she turned to walk through his bedroom door.

 “No, no! Wait!”

 Astrid sent a coy glance over her shoulder and waited expectantly.

 “It’s a fish cappuccino,” he deadpanned.

 She laughed, a strange, unfamiliar giggle. God, she _liked_ him. She actually liked him. Enough to consider how much this _wouldn’t_ work out. His face brightened with her laugh as he took an unsure step toward her.

 “So, you’ll stay?” he asked, his lips quirked hopefully upward, “For the fish cappuccino?”

 Astrid nodded. “And I think you owe me a lesson on torque, if I’m not mistaken.”

 “Versus RPM. I didn’t forget.”

 They were grinning at each other, inching closer in that inevitable way that would undoubtedly end in a kiss. Astrid’s eyes were just sliding shut when she heard her phone go off somewhere in the apartment. Aria. Ruff. What if it was important? What if—Warm hands on her hips dragged her back into the moment, back into her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man and his delightfully bare chest.

 “Leave it,” he murmured, his lips so deliciously close to her own.

 “It might be important,” she murmured back, even as she leaned in toward him.

 “Not as important as this,” he said.

 He kissed her then, his lips melding against hers. It was even better sober, even more real than it had been last night. His lips were faintly chapped but still soft and plump, gently insistent as his tongue coaxed past her teeth and danced with hers. He kissed her languorously, like she was a delicacy to be savoured and enjoyed. A glass of fine wine. A glass of fine _aged_ wine.

 The kiss deepened, his hands clutching her closer, fingers digging in and stretching the shirt in his enthusiasm. Oh well, it was his shirt anyway. Her hands slid up his bare arms, hot skin beneath her palms. She buried her fingers in his hair, pulling him into her. He groaned into her mouth, just barely, as she ground her hips against his. She didn’t do this. This wasn’t like her. Maybe twenty years ago, this was her, but now? When was the last time she’d kissed anyone like this? When was the last time she’d wanted to?

 He made her feel so young. He made her feel so wanted, so desirable. She had to tell him. She couldn’t keep going on like this. It was disingenuous. If he thought his leg was bad, what would he think about her concealed age? It was a _lie_ and Astrid didn’t do lies.

 She broke the kiss, stepping out of it and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. If she didn’t do it, she’d fall back into him and let herself keep lying. Her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man apparently wasn’t done kissing her, though. He pulled her close again, his lips tracing hotly along the length of her throat. Astrid fought the urge to swing her leg up around his hip and eliminate all space between them.

 “What about that coffee?” she murmured into his hair.

 “It can wait,” he replied between kisses.

 Astrid laughed again, quieter than before, more familiar than before. “It’s the morning after, you know,” she said, still chuckling.

 “So?”

 He was nuzzling her neck, tugging at the collar of her shirt so that he could kiss more of her. Astrid wasn’t sure how she could stand it; it was driving her crazy with want.

 “So,” she said as she tilted her head to allow him better access, “This is the part where one of us slinks out the door.”

 “Is that how this works? I’ve never really been one for rules.”

 They were kissing again, hungrily. His fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt and grasping her bare ass, kneading the flesh there. Astrid gasped and her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man smiled against her lips. She knew she had to stop it before they toppled back into bed and she never told him. He deserved to know. He _had_ to know. She _had_ to tell him. But oh god, she didn’t want to tell him.

 He broke away, sucking on her earlobe, his clever fingers lifting up the shirt.

 “I’m older than you,” she blurted out without ceremony.

 “Mmhmm,” he murmured against her cheek, kissing his way down to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder.

 “No, I am,” she insisted, biting back a moan.

 “Got it.”

 She caught her bottom lip with her teeth and pushed both her palms against his shoulders, pushing him an arm’s length away from her. His lips were kiss swollen and his eyes were nearly black. She wanted to throw herself at him, to tackle him down onto the bed and have her way with him. But he was smart and witty and _funny_ and he deserved better than that.

 “I’m forty-two,” she pushed out, louder than expected as though it had simply exploded out from her core.

 His expression didn’t change, as his eyes swept her body from her toes up to her face. A slow, tiny frown played on his lips, his brow furrowing when he found her eyes again. Astrid waited for the inevitably awkward instant where he felt ashamed of what had happened. She waited for him to turn on her, to usher her out the door all while asking for Aria’s number. So, this was how the dream would end. Astrid straightened her shoulders and stood tall, prepared to go down with honour.

 “You can just say whatever it is you’re thinking,” she said, mimicking his earlier words, her voice even and deadly calm.

 He cocked his head at her, his brow creased. “That girl at the bar,” he said slowly, “With the dark hair.”

 “My daughter.”

 He looked at her with the same seemingly confused expression. Not angry. Not disgusted. Mostly just baffled. Maybe not even that. The suspense was killing her.

 “Look, maybe I should just go—“

 “I don’t care,” he said suddenly.

 Astrid froze and frowned back at him. “About me leaving or about my age?”

 He rolled his eyes at her. “I knew you were older than me.”

 “How?”

 He shrugged and moved closer to her, his hand reaching for her hip and resting there lightly. “Too smart. Too _refined_.”

 His now familiar smirk returned as he leaned in to kiss her. Astrid leaned out of it. “You’re my daughter’s age.”

 Undaunted, he grinned. “You don’t know how old I am.”

 “Well, you’re closer to her age than mine.”

 “Hmm. She still has nothing on you.”

 Their lips met again with that defined sense of _rightness_. Astrid liked the way their bodies fit together, the way they moved together and worked together. She didn’t actually want to give up her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man. She pulled back again, their lips separating with a soft pop.

 “How old are you?” she demanded.

 He laughed. “Does it really matter?”

 “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m _forty-two_.”

 “I told you I don’t care.”

 “Maybe I do.”

 He leaned back, grinning lazily at her and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear before sighing and looking her dead in the eye. “I’ll be twenty-seven in February.”

 “Oh.”

It was all Astrid could think to say, really, because twenty-six was definitely better than twenty. It was less likely that she was old enough to be his mother. And it explained things about him – his quick wit and the sense of _responsibility_ he seemed to wear like a badge. He was an _adult_. A _grown up_. She really couldn’t argue with him about his life choices, especially if those life choices included her. Astrid was distracted by the way he was toying with his bottom lip, biting it gently with his top teeth. _She_ wanted to bite it.

 “Stay for fish coffee?” he asked.

 Astrid stared at him, once again caught by how remarkably _not_ her type he was. Maybe that was a good thing. It had been a good thing so far. Maybe she’d been wrong about her type all along. Maybe what she’d really needed all these years was standing right in front of her, lean and freckled and _sweet_.

 She shrugged noncommittally. “And a lesson on torque.”

 “Versus RPM,” he agreed, grinning.

 Oh god, this was happening. It was actually happening. Because she knew she wasn’t going to walk out of here and never look back. She knew that when he made her his fish cappuccino and told her about his bike, she wasn’t going to be able to leave him alone. She didn’t want to leave him alone.

 “I guess since we’re not following the rules anymore--,” Astrid started.

 “Oh, I never was,” he quipped.

 Astrid bit her bottom lip and blinked at him. Ruff would be so disappointed in her inability to simply get laid. But then why keep trying when she got it right the first time? And why play the field when she had the best player right here? And Jesus, she was too old to play the field anyway. She didn’t _want_ to play the field. Oh, for god’s sake. She shoved out her hand toward him.

 “I’m Astrid.”

 Her Mystery Motorcycle Rider Man looked at her hand for a split second and then smiled fully at her, reaching out and grasping it.

 “People call me Hiccup.”


End file.
